


Something Real Born of Dreams

by Ferith12



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 16:19:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17062979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferith12/pseuds/Ferith12
Summary: He is dreams born of idealism, and dreams born of greed.  Eyes bright as the stars he reaches for, ambition burning with the power of suns, and dreams failing to dust.





	Something Real Born of Dreams

He is dreams born of idealism, and dreams born of greed.  Eyes bright as the stars he reaches for, ambition burning with the power of suns, and dreams failing to dust.

"I believe in freedom!" he said.  And he believed in it.  Fought a war for it.  And in the end there were slaves.

Idealism burned within him, optimism filled his heart.  "A free land cannot have slavery," he said, "So a free land will not, and free people will free their slaves eventually."

For a while it looked like maybe he was right.  Maybe if it weren't for the cotton gin.  Maybe if humans were just slightly better beings.  Maybe, maybe maybe.

Andrew Jackson was elected the people's president, and he was heady with it.  For the first time, democracy, true democracy!  All that America was and stood for.  And Andrew Jackson forged a trail of tears. 

But America believed, believed, believed.

In the end slavery lasted nearly seventy years after he chose to put off ending it.  And it was only finished with a brutal, bloody  war that was about himself first and slaves only second.  But then, wasn't it the same thing, really?  America is freedom.

His blood pounded with manifest destiny.  His greatness spread across the continent, across the globe.  He was unstoppable, irrepressible, right, right right.

He fought two world wars, and lost fewer men in both together than he did fighting himself.  He came out the other end a super power with the world in his hand.  "Democracy!" he cried, as though he knew all the answers.  Ideals shining in his eyes like the power of nuclear bombs.  As though democracy was the solution to all problems.  As though no majority had ever been cruel.  And he screamed of freedom with belief in every breath as he played with the lives of smaller nations like pawns on a chessboard.

He is dreams born of idealism, and reality born of cruel humanity.  And he is old enough now that the naivete that once fueled him is wearing thin.  He is power like poison and ambition directionless.  Dreams failing to dust.

But if he has been a monster as one who believes, how much worse would he be if he gave up. 

So he never gives up.  Pride and childishness and strength.  He is Alfred F. Jones, United States of America.  "I am the Best!" he yells, like saying it will make it true, make him freedom and justice and second chances and every ideal he has never lived up to.  He is angry and fractured and torn, but he smiles like he hasn't a care in the world, like his rightness could outshine the sun, and he tries and tries and tries.


End file.
